That Tragic Morning
by KarmaBean
Summary: A little bit of fluff that is a prequel to "A Simple Question," so the real number two. It's Rory and Tristan in Rory's apartment, hijinks abound.


Note1: This is a silly bit of fluff that is part three/two of the series. (  
  
Note2: The poem I used is Baudelaire's Tout entière.  
  
Note3: All things between the asterisks, besides breaks, are supposed to be italicised…I still haven't figured that bit out…  
  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
That Tragic Morning  
  
  
  
Tristan was in love. Well, he'd been in love with her for a while, but it was a different kind of love. Before it was more of an infatuation, because he didn't have a chance in hell of getting her. He was content to brood in private, letting her angelic face haunt him, her mocking voice poke little holes into his heart with a dull needle. Overly dramatic, yes, but that was his style back then.  
  
Now she was his, and he was free to love her for real. And she would willingly return that love. How was he certain? Because she'd told him as much last night. Yes. Rory Gilmore whispered it in his ear.  
  
*I love you.*  
  
Those words had always been so meaningless coming from other people. From the hoards of girlfriends, the brief entanglements, even his parents. But from her they were magic.  
  
He was sure to act like a giddy fool for the next week, month maybe, but damn it, he was in love!  
  
She had whispered it oh so softly against his chest, just as she was about to fall asleep. At first he feared that he was just hearing things, so following a stupid gut reaction he shook her by the shoulder and asked for clarification. And yes, he actually used the word 'clarification.'  
  
Rory had opened her eyes sleepily and smiled up at him with her brilliant, glorious smile. *I said I love you, silly*. And then she told Tristan that she wanted to sleep, and snuggled closer to his side. She was already fast asleep when he said the three words back to her.  
  
While she had slept as soundly as a baby, he hadn't gotten a wink until after five. Now at eight, Tristan decided to make her breakfast in bed. It was one of those traditionally sweet couplish gestures that he wanted to do for Rory. What better way to wake up in the morning?  
  
Besides, it would win him brownie points for future mishaps, he thought, because while he'd like to be an optimist and say he'd never do anything wrong, Tristan DuGrey, the ultimate realist, knew he'd screw up eventually. It didn't matter how much he cared, it didn't matter that his world revolved around her…sooner or later, he'd do something to make her gorgeous blue eyes storm with rage, and her kissable pink lips tighten into a frighteningly serious line.  
  
Tristan shuddered at the thought as he peered into her fridge. While he knew she preferred a breakfast of coffee and danishes from the nearby café, he thought she might enjoy a homemade breakfast for a change. After all, if it was one thing Tristan could do, it was make a killer western omelet. But as he gazed into her nearly bare fridge, he decided that his dearest Rory would have to make do with a cheese omelet, and a side of buttered toast.  
  
He brought all the ingredients out and laid them on the counter. Then he rubbed his hands together, frowning when his eyes landed on the coffeemaker. Ah-hah, a foil in the plan.  
  
For all the culinary power he possessed, after taking a cooking short- course and learning from Sookie, he had no clue how to make coffee. Oh, Tristan knew it was simple enough. The coffee and the water and the power switch were probably not difficult to master, but hell, he'd never had a use for them. He'd just bought it pre-made from the nearest Dean and Deluca, or Starbuck's. Yes, he was a slave to prefab coffee, and a dolt when it came to the workings of a real and true coffeemaker. Or more specifically in this case, a Mr. Coffee monstrosity.  
  
Tristan stood before the thing, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze intent upon it. It really was fascinating how nice it looked. The coffeemaker was perhaps the most well-kept, clean item in her entire apartment. Not even her laptop was without a ding or two. Mr. Coffee, as he would now call it, looked like he just emerged from its original packaging. And he knew that wasn't the case. It was a regular fixture in her apartment; perhaps even the most cherished.  
  
Opening the freezer door, he quickly spotted the industrial size canister of regular Maxwell House coffee sitting amidst cartons of ice cream and one dilapidated tray of ice. Tristan reached for the canister and held it in his hands. How hard could it be to make a pot of coffee?  
  
*  
  
A sharp noise shook her from the last vestiges of sleep that she was clinging to ever so dearly. One eye opened as she tried to pinpoint the source of the noise. Was it glass breaking? A pot clanging against the linoleum? A combination, perhaps? And who was making the freaking noise? It was much too early in the morning for any of that business…  
  
Rory's thoughts came to a screeching halt as she reached for the warm body that wasn't there. In his place were a body imprint and a half-mangled pillow. Where was her boyfriend? Her wonderful boyfriend who spent all last night in bed with her, eating Indian takeout and watching a M*A*S*H marathon. Her adorable freak who, when she asked him to tell her a bedtime story, began reciting poetry by Baudelaire he knew by heart. In French.  
  
*Elle éblouit comme l'Aurore…Et console comme la Nuit…Et l'harmonie est trop exquise…Qui gouverne tout son beau corps…*  
  
She dazzles like the blazing Dawn…Consoles me like the restful Night…The harmony is too sublime…That governs all her body fair…  
  
She had taken the blasted language in high school, and for the second time in her life, she was glad. The first time was when she was able to work her way through a Balzac volume, but that didn't really count. This time it counted, because she could fully absorb the beauty of Baudelaire's words when Tristan applied them to her. Hey, any girl could appreciate a little bit of flattery in poetry.  
  
In the mean time, the poetry also further re-enforced the fact that Tristan was a gigantic nerd. Or a seasoned Don Juan. Who else could recite poetry on command or use philosophical theories to his own perverse advantage? She happened to prefer the first explanation.  
  
It didn't really matter if he knew French poetry and philosophy because he was a fanatic or a womanizer, because in the end, he was hers; the same maddening man who asked for 'clarification' when she confessed her love, and said it back moments later. He loved her.  
  
*He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loooovvvveees mmeeeeeeeeee! Me. Me. Meeeee.*  
  
Rory was on the cusp of sleep when she heard him, but she had. He'd murmured it against her crown, and then kissed her gently, infusing her with tingly heat from head to toe.  
  
It was the last thing she remembered before she drifted off to a Tristan- filled dream world. She was still visiting there—in the middle of a frolic in a woodsy stream, in fact—when she was rudely awakened by a series of noises. A rummaging noise yanked her from her Elysian fantasy, and the crashing sounds landed her square in reality. Given, it wasn't a bad reality, but it wasn't the same.  
  
Perhaps, she thought, it would be easier to bear being awake at…8:30? It was 8:30? Ahem…perhaps it would be easier to bear being awake at 8:30, if she had someone to pout about it with. So again she asked, where was he? Was he the fool making all of that racket? What could he…?  
  
In a flash of omnipotence, she deduced that he was cooking for her. He was going to feed her. With an 'mmm' on her lips, Rory sunk further into her pillow and soft mattress. Again, she lamented on how sweet he was, and even ventured to think about how lucky she was to have him.  
  
She didn't deserve to have such a considerate boyfriend.  
  
*  
  
"Take a deep breath. Deep breath, DuGrey. Take it easy. She's Rory. She's rational; she's brilliant; she won't kill you. She's not insane…except about her coffee," he sighed. "Oh god, she's going to kill me."  
  
With his heart beating at cardiac arrest speed, Tristan nudged the bedroom door open with his bottom. He slowly turned around to see his girlfriend snuggled into her bed with her eyes wide open. The electric blue orbs gazed upon him sleepily, and a lazy smile spread across her lips.  
  
"Good morning," she breathed, stretching her arms into the air.  
  
"Good morning," he said, hesitating a beat before walking over to her bed as she was sitting up against the headboard. "I, uh, made you something to eat."  
  
"Aw, you didn't have to," she said softly, making room for him to settle the breakfast tray over her lap. "Whoa, where did you find this?"  
  
Tristan waved his hand towards the door. "It was in the closet. I thought I'd only find a box top or something to use, but lo and behold, there was this sitting in one of the cardboard boxes," he explained.  
  
"Probably courtesy of my grandmother," she mumbled, eyeing the offerings. He'd made the omelet and toast, and even found some oranges to make fresh orange juice. But there was a key part to any Gilmore breakfast that seemed to be missing: the ever-present cup of coffee.  
  
Rory laughed slightly. "Where's the coffee?"  
  
He had to make a decision: to insult her intelligence and feign stupidity, or insult her intelligence and make up an implausible lie? Never once did Tristan think the truth was an option.  
  
"Do you know how bad coffee is for you? It's high time you cut back on your daily intake," he said quickly, not daring to look her in the eyes as he did so.  
  
"I'm sorry," she laughed, "I don't think I heard you correctly. Because I could have sworn you were just telling me that I should cut down on my coffee, but only an idiot would make such a preposterous suggestion. And you sir, are no idiot."  
  
"I'm serious. Really, you could do it. You just have to remember to taper it off instead of going cold turkey, because withdrawal is a bitch."  
  
Rory blinked rapidly. "I'm not hearing this. You're not saying this to a girl who's been imbibing coffee since birth…Learned how to operate a coffeemaker before she could walk…Got her first travel mug in preschool…" she trailed off, wondering what alternative universe she had stumbled into. Suddenly, her keen eyes narrowed, zeroing in on her guilty-looking boyfriend. "What did you do?"  
  
It was all over now.  
  
Tristan finally met her eyes as he steeled himself for a beating. He was a man. He could take it. "I just want you to keep in mind that I love you. A lot."  
  
Involuntarily, a goofy grin plastered itself across her face. "I know," she murmured, before abruptly shaking her head. "No, wait. Stop distracting me. Spit it out. What offense have you committed, you rogue?"  
  
While he wanted to chuckle at her colorful vocabulary, he had to focus on the confession at hand.  
  
"Honey, I broke your coffeemaker."  
  
Her gorgeous blue eyes stormed with rage, and her kissable pink lips tightened into a frighteningly serious line.  
  
"I'm so sorry."  
  
Her fingers were so tightly fisted that her knuckles turned white.  
  
"I'll fix it," he promised.  
  
Tristan swore he saw smoke curling out of her ears.  
  
"Say something," he sighed.  
  
Rory's bottom lip started to quiver then, and before he knew it, her eyes were watering. "You've killed my baby," she said in a tiny voice.  
  
"Oh…oh no, don't cry…" he said helplessly.  
  
She fell back against her pillow, dramatically sighing. "Why would you do such a thing? Was Mr. Coffee being a pain? He is difficult sometimes, but he didn't deserve to die!"  
  
"It wasn't like that!" he exclaimed, moving the tray aside so he could sit by her properly. "It's just that I've never used a coffeemaker, and you didn't have any directions…There were coffee grinds everywhere…Apparently I shouldn't have mixed it with the water first and poured it all in the back…I didn't know there was a filter involved…I thought it was instant…And that's one tricky power button…"  
  
Rory sniffled, looking up at him with watery eyes. "You don't know how to use a coffeemaker?"  
  
"Please say you'll forgive me," he said softly.  
  
And then her expression was more disbelief than sadness. She sat up again, poking one of her fingers into his chest. "Any simpleton can use a coffeemaker!"  
  
"That's what I thought too…"  
  
Rory growled. "That's just typical, you know," she said, crossing her arms.  
  
"What do you mean, typical?" he asked, adopting a somewhat defensive tone.  
  
"Typical of men! Boys! You never ask when you don't know something. You have to pretend like you know, and meanwhile, you don't even stop to consider the casualties. Like Mr. Coffee!" she exclaimed, pushing her way out of the bed to survey the damage in the kitchen.  
  
"Hey, it's not fair to generalize like that. I was just trying to be nice…" he trailed off, following in her wake.  
  
When he reached her, she was playing with the power button, clicking it on and off. All she managed to do was make some smoke rise from the back, accompanied by a faint fizzling noise.  
  
"Poor Mr. Coffee."  
  
Tristan stood behind Rory, resting his chin on her shoulder as his arms went around her waist. "I really am sorry."  
  
She sighed. "I suppose you had the right idea," she said reluctantly. "So I grudgingly offer forgiveness."  
  
With a relieved smile, he nuzzled her neck. "Thank you for your benevolence. And I promise, I'll fix it as soon as I figure out how."  
  
"Or you could just buy me another."  
  
"Male pride, Ror. Let me have my pathetic attempt at fixing it."  
  
"Fine. But if you lose a limb, I take no responsibility."  
  
"Naturally," he said, kissing her jaw.  
  
"Oh, and one thing more thing, sweetheart."  
  
"Anything, darling."  
  
"You touch my coffeemaker again, I will make you regret it ever so severely."  
  
Tristan gulped. "Sure thing."  
  
Rory reached up to pat his cheek. "I'm glad we came to an understanding. C'mon, let's go get dressed and get some real coffee."  
  
He watched Rory disentangle herself and sashay back into her room, and breathed a sigh of relief. "Mental note: never come between a Gilmore and her coffeemaker."  
  
  
  
The End of the prequel to the sequel, which may now be called a triquel? 


End file.
